Broken Silence
by Imogen Kain
Summary: A young woman arrives at Hogwarts in her seventh year, gaining credits as a teacher's assistant in the dungeons. Over time, her relationship with the potions master evolves into something deeper, especially once she graduates. Snape X OC.


**Hey everyone! I'm glad you're trying this out. **

**This is a Snape/OC romance, and while it's true that my OC starts off as a potions student at Hogwarts, she is of-age in the wizarding world (that is, she's seventeen). However, and not to give anything away, nothing concrete will actually happen between the two characters until she is an adult. I know people tend to have problems with under-aged romances, so I'm just saying this to put to rest any worries you might have. :)**

**If you've read any other of my stories, you'll know I'm a review fiend. I respond best to them. So review please! Let me know what you think. Enjoy!

* * *

**

There was ringing in her ears. If she hadn't been so aware of the impending rush of adrenaline, she might have assumed she'd lost her ability to read English, given how the letters were swimming on the thick, tasteful parchment. The envelope dropped to the floor, and she vaguely heard Lysander hooting for a treat, but there was really nothing at that moment save for the jet black squiggles writhing over a cream colored surface.

Only one word managed to be decipherable, a taunt, the boldness of its letters incomprehensibly steady: EXPELLED.

"We regret to inform you…" Now there was anger. _No they goddamn didn't_. She'd been a thorn in her headmaster's side since first stepping over Salem's marvelous marble threshold, and they were only too happy that she had finally fucked up enough to be let go.

It _had_ been a fuck-up; there was no way around that. She'd screwed up big this time, _huge_, and her mom was going to be absolutely furious. The Salem Academy for Witches was probably one of the best magic schools in the country, after all. So much for that opportunity.

Liz hated it—who wouldn't? Living with five hundred other girls wasn't exactly a blast, especially given the striking lack of testosterone to break up the tension. The only men she ever came into contact with at school were professors and the occasional guest wizard. If not for the Muggle guys in the next town, she would have gone stir-crazy.

But she hadn't been _trying_ to get expelled… it was simply that she'd stopped caring. She'd ended her sixth year, after all, having done all the required coursework and taken the tests; most importantly, she'd recently come of age. Sneaking up to the towers after curfew to get drunk hadn't seemed like the Worst-Idea-In-The-World at the time… but she supposed attempting a fire spell while absolutely wasted had been. Many a witch and wizard had died from attempting to create fire out of newspaper and thin air, especially the drunk ones. Widespread, documented cases of that very occurrence. Yep. Truth.

Okay, alright, so it wasn't the most volatile spell, which only made Liz's botched attempt the more fascinating and embarrassing.

A third of the tower wall had been blasted away, which had instantly attracted a lot of attention to a very incriminating scene: ten to fifteen broken bottles of firewhisky, four passed out, slightly singed drunkards (three of whom were boys), a number of less-than-legal items, and a swaying, bewildered Liz standing over it all, smoke still streaming from the tip of her wand.

She'd been suspended immediately, long-term action pending.

But it wasn't pending anymore.

Expelled. Jesus. What was her mom going to say?

Heaving a sigh—close to tears, but too stubborn to admit it—she slumped downstairs with the letter in hand. This was going to be a fun conversation.

* * *

"You're gone, Liz. That's _it_."

The death sentence. Kicked out of the house. _That's_ what her mom was saying.

It didn't come as too much of a surprise, of course. Liz didn't expect to be allowed to live there if she wasn't in school. Not with WonderHusband 2.0 moving in.

"Are you serious?" she asked anyway, figuring she'd give an argument the old college try. Her mom's compressed lips, however, told her there wasn't much to hope for.

"Yes, I'm _serious_," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "I can't deal with this anymore! You've had things handed to you too often, young lady. No school in the country is going to want you now." Tears welled in her mother's great green eyes, and her lower lip quivered in a way that told Liz she was truly, profoundly, disappointed in her.

That felt like absolute shit.

"Oh come on, mom, I'm sure someone will…"

"This is _Salem_," her mom cried, shaking the expulsion letter in Liz's face. "You're not getting in _anywhere_ decent with them speaking against you! _Especially_ given how much your headmaster dislikes you."

"Werner's a sexually repressed old toad," Liz said bitterly.

"It doesn't matter!" her mom replied. "He's the head of your school, Elizabeth…"

"Ex-school."

"Quiet. I don't know how you did it, I really don't."

"He's had it out for me since I stepped on his wand first year."

At this moment, Liz's step-dad-to-be started chuckling. Liz spun to look at him, her harsh expression communicating that this was possibly the _least_ funny thing she could think of. Tim's easy smile didn't quit, however, and it had a weird way of softening her. The tall, balding Muggle was sitting at the other end of the table, regarding the scene mildly. He'd taken an immediate liking to Liz when they'd first met, and he was endlessly fascinated by the fact that she was a witch. It made her slightly infallible in his eyes.

Her mom was used to witches and wizards by now, unfortunately. She was much tougher to impress.

"How did you manage to step on your principal's wand?" Tim asked.

"Headmaster, honey."

"Headmaster's wand," he corrected. Liz blew out her cheeks and threw a look at her mom, who was only too happy to tell this rather embarrassing story.

"She was showing off for the other kids one day when he'd left the classroom. Climbed onto his desk and started dancing around. It was lying there, perfectly innocent, and of course as soon as he comes back into the room she panics, misplaces a step and snaps it like a twig."

"Oh Jesus, I was eleven."

"Well you're an adult now," her mom snapped back. "So why are you still acting like a child? I tried everything I could with your brother and he _still_ turned out the way he did. And you're a witch! I don't want to know what could happen if you become a delinquent, too, much less run around with a wand but no school to keep you grounded. I don't want to do this to you, Liz, but you need to learn a lesson. I'm sending you to live with your dad."

Liz's blood pressure plummeted and the world went grey.

_No. No, anything but that!_

Expulsion was turning out to be far graver than she'd originally surmised.

* * *

Severus Snape wasn't exactly _looking forward_ to the next academic year. In fact, _dreading it_ might have been a more appropriate phrase, especially after last semester; that mess with Black's escape from Azkaban—not to mention the werewolf's presence on the grounds—had been straining to say the least. Snape was tired, both mentally and emotionally, from it all, but summer hadn't lazed about, waiting for his recovery; suddenly it was cresting August, and Autumn leaves would soon start to fall. But would the subsequent year be any better, any calmer, any _less frantic_?

Definitely not. No, instead the castle would be teeming not only with the Hogwartsian mass of dunderheads, but with insipid French and hostile Bulgarian dunderheads as well.

Oh yes, and Karkaroff would be there too. Excellent.

It seemed that the harder Snape tried to forget his past and everyone in it, the more often they sprung up out of the woodwork. To taunt him, it seemed. And of course, Harry Potter, the most glaring taunt of all, seemed to be the catalyst wherever trouble went.

Ah, but that brought up the one and only bright side to the Triwizard Tournament being held at Hogwarts this year: at the very least, amidst the hullaballoo these ludicrous games would generate, Potter would not be the center of attention. At the very least, Snape would be able to occupy his thoughts with something other than the dark occurrences surrounding Lily's son. And perhaps the boy's incredible ego would take a blow from it. _Perhaps_ he'd even manage to keep his foolish little nose out of other people's business.

No, that last one was entirely too much to hope for.

The shrill whistle of the teapot shook Snape from his reverie, and he closed the book he'd abandoned on his lap, rising from the single worn-leather armchair in the corner to head for his cramped kitchen. He'd prepared a brew—already in a strainer at the bottom of his teacup—that might help him sleep, recover some of the energy he felt he was lacking. Pure and simple rest was the strategy this week, now that his lesson plans were complete. Next Monday he'd be Apparating into Hogsmeade, and if he was as fatigued then as he'd felt for the entire summer, things might go sour rather quickly.

Snape watched steam drift up from the flow of water he poured into the mug, the vapors of the heated herbs already soothing his overactive head. He raised the cup to his nose, breathing deeply, trying to infuse the concoction with the power running through his fingertips.

The world of potions making could be extremely specific, with drastically different brews resulting from something as small as stirring clockwise as opposed to widdershins. But he liked the subtleties, and he liked that concocting could be vaguer, more shadowy, improvisational. This base sleeping potion, for example, had simply been thrown together with herbs from his store, concentrated over, and he was eager to discover its effects; what kind of sleep would it be? Dreamless? Vivid? Lucid? Deep?

He tipped the cup to his mouth.

The shock of pain which streaked through his left forearm startled him so profoundly that he let go of the mug, the tea crashing to the floor, spraying hot water and soggy herbs all over the shins of his dark slacks. Confused, angry, and more than a little worried, Snape ripped up his sleeve and stared at the marking there, hardly believing what he saw.

Had he imagined it? Was the pain just some kind of nerve spasm, associated so deeply with the Mark that he'd seen something that wasn't there? He couldn't suppose —couldn't even begin to _want_ to suppose—that the snake had really just been wriggling on his arm, moving its slitted nose in and out of the eyes of the death's head. His Dark Mark had been inactive since the Dark Lord's fall—it never twinged, moved or even _itched_.

_So what the hell had that been about?_

If he hadn't imagined it… he didn't want to think about the consequences. Did it merit a letter to Dumbledore in any case?

Moving back into his study, tea-less, irritated and thoroughly unnerved, Snape grabbed a dark bound notebook from his desk and sank into a chair. No, the headmaster didn't need to hear about it every time he had a pain in his arm, but he thought he should record the occasion lest it prove to be significant. Just the date, the time, a brief description…

He looked at his Dark Mark again. He _used_ to like it, back when he'd first gotten it—foolish, power-hungry naivety of youth—but, needless to say, now it was a stigma. It didn't allow you to forget. Snape had considered a particularly strong self-inflicted Obliviate countless times, just to erase memories of the past, but while the tattoo still marred his skin, he knew he would always recall.

He sat in silence for a long moment, telling himself everything was alright. It was a nerve pain or the like—if the same thing had happened in his right arm he wouldn't have thought twice about it. And the illusion of movement his Mark had shown had simply been caused by shadow, by the rippling of tendons under his skin. There was nothing to be concerned about...

"By gods!" The sound of his own exclamation surprised him nearly as much as the sudden throb in his arm. He lurched forward in the chair, grasping at the base of his elbow, focusing all his attention on the writhing snake, on the powerful—if brief—rush of pain.

_This_ was _not_ his imagination.

He flew from his seat quickly enough to upset the inkwell he'd balanced on its armrest, striding to the window and ripping aside the curtain there, eyes cast to the dark skies, wondering if the sign would be there, too. But no movement marred the purple-blue of the clouds; no unnatural, magical light had been projected against the atmosphere to announce the presence of the once-proud Death Eaters. Snape let the drape fall from his thin fingers and pressed them against his forehead, eyebrows furrowed, deeply disturbed.

He dropped his gaze to his forearm, but the snake didn't move again. What was going on?

Things like this were not simply happenstance. There had to be a reason…

Snape turned on his heel in a flash, a bolt of insight making him rush to where he'd discarded his morning _Prophet_ on the side table. _What day was it?_

The front page news told him what he needed to know. Of course. It had been the World Cup today, the largest multinational collection of witches and wizards for four years—since the last World Cup. The perfect place to do a bit of terrorizing, ideal for attention loving Death Eaters wishing to inform the world that they were still among them.

Had someone been trying to call comrades? If so, the attempt had been botched and greatly rushed—sloppy, but surely a sign of one of the Dark Lord's supporters. Only they could summon each other.

A deeply ominous feeling came over him then, one that had become more and more frequent in the past months. A surge of dread, accompanied by the premonition that not all was going to be well; things might turn out very badly indeed.

Sneering despite himself at the smiling faces on the front cover of the _Prophet_—wondering if there weren't screaming, terrorized Quidditch fanatics somewhere in Britain—he threw the newspaper in the bin, a little surprised at how sour his mood suddenly was. He sat heavily at his desk, reaching for his quill and a long sheet of parchment, and started to strategize exactly how he would phrase this to Dumbledore.

* * *

"Just like your mum, always leaving things to the last minute."

Liz hadn't seen her father in person for five years, yet he still thought he had the right to act as though they were close. When she'd stumbled off the plane into Heathrow, for instance, he'd nervously fumbled towards her, this big goofy grin on his narrow face, and enfolded her in freakishly long arms. That wouldn't have been so bad, had he not started cooing about how much she resembled her mother, how beautiful she was, how proud he was of her academic success thus far—oh yes, Liz had found a long time ago that school was one of her talents, it came naturally, if you forgot those unfortunate extracurricular mishaps. _He_ took her talent as _his_ personal strength, as though it reflected his astonishing paternal techniques.

No… now, really, that wasn't quite fair… Most likely, he took it to mean he was an extremely gifted, mighty wizard, and he had passed on this trait to his only child. The terrible thing was that Liz couldn't entirely discount this. Her mother's relatives were Muggles, after all. She only had her father to thank for any raw, genetic power.

But that did not mean five years without a single visit could be forgiven or forgotten. Sure, he'd owled her regularly, and even called once or twice (he was always extremely nervous about using a real telephone), but he'd been remarkably absent from her twelfth through seventeenth years… which, of course, happened to be the period during which her emotions sometimes got out of control. His malingering could probably be accounted for by extreme fear of Muggle technology—which was also part of the reason for his divorce from her mom—because he absolutely refused to take a plane. And, since Apparating such long distances was exceptionally dangerous, practically impossible, the only other option was going by boat, the voyage of which took weeks he did not have out of his work schedule.

But the fact of the matter was, he'd completely missed her progression into woman-hood, and she'd grown relatively bitter about it. He'd even been a handy source of angst while she was a young teenager, the hurt and betrayal pulled out and dusted off when she wasn't feeling melodramatic enough.

So his level of familiarity with her was incredibly disconcerting. He'd known her as a child. Now, he was meeting her again as a woman. How could he tell her she was just like her mom?

But he had a point with the "last minute" thing. School started in three days. She'd barely have enough time to shop for supplies, much less get accustomed to England.

Liz looked over to her dad, who was grinning in a surprisingly endearing way; indeed, he hadn't stopped smiling since she'd gotten off the flight. That had been an hour ago, and after a brief, easy lunch in a tiny tavern, they were walking side by side down a cold, wet—but, she had to admit, absolutely charming—lane, lined with pubs and bookstores.

"I wanted to say goodbye to my friends" was all she could think to say.

Her dad's smile faltered and he looked down at her.

"I'm sorry, love," he said earnestly. "I know it wasn't your choice to come here. Though I can't say I don't love seeing you."

"I know," Liz muttered, totally at a loss. Her father really was trying; she could see that. But bitterness remained, coating the back of her throat, making her tongue sharper than it should have been. She had to keep swallowing jabs at him. Much as she wanted him to understand her pain over his absence, she didn't want to blatantly _hurt_ him.

"And you'll like Hogwarts, I think," her dad went on, scratching the light stubble forming around his chin. He'd grown out his hair a bit, and now it was easy to see how closely the dark mahogany and thick strands matched hers. "I did. Best seven years of my life, really. If you get into Gryffindor, tell the fat lady hello from me." His crooked grin told her she was supposed to giggle or something. Instead, Liz gave him a blank look.

"What's Gryffindor, some kind of club?"

He chuckled. "No, no. It's a Hogwarts house… a bit like an academic family. Of course, you're broken into years, but all the students are clustered into houses as well."

They arrived at a diminutive pub, shabby and dim-looking, squashed between two taller, more modern buildings on either side—not that London was particularly modern when it came to architecture; Liz kept getting excited by just how old and pretty the residences were here. The sign above the pub's entrance proclaimed that it was called The Leaky Cauldron, which seemed rather conspicuous for a wizarding establishment on a Muggle block. It was probably hidden, visually, from them. Her dad steered her towards it as he continued to explain the stupid housing system. Liz couldn't pretend to be very excited about it.

"There are four of them: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Slytherin and Ravenclaw." He pushed open the establishment's grimy wooden door and ushered her into the dark barroom, lit only by candle and absolutely vacant, save for a hunched old barman polishing bottles. "You'll probably be sorted into one for the year, so you have a dormitory to sleep in. I don't know, really; I'm not sure what they do with transfer students."

Liz had to subdue her biting remarks about the British educational system. Come to that, what kind of ridiculous name for a school was _Hogwarts_?

There she was, being overly critical again.

"Hallo, Tom!" Her father hailed the barman—bald, broken smile, thin arms. He raised the glass he was cleaning in response, eyes darting curiously towards Liz. Her father wrapped an arm around her shoulder, but she didn't lean into it. "This is my daughter, Elizabeth. She's spending her seventh year at Hogwarts… kind of an exchange trip."

Well, at least he made it sound good. If you put it like that, this whole experience almost seemed impressive, like she was choosing to study abroad as opposed to being expelled from one school and begrudgingly accepted by another. Liz waved at Tom; his smile got softer.

"Didn't know they did that there," he replied, his accent different from her dad's… Cockney? East End? Were those the same? Was that even his accent?

"Special exceptions." Her dad winked.

Special exceptions indeed. Her father's high-paying, respectable job at the British Ministry of Magic had a lot to do with her acceptance; had he not been alumni, made generous annual donations and kept on good terms with the Headmaster, Liz probably would not have gotten in.

"We're just going for her school supplies now… only three days till commencement, after all!" He clapped his hand on her shoulder and she grimaced at the nodding barman, who waved them towards a door in the back—one she assumed opened into a place her father had called Diagon Alley.

Liz wasn't exactly sure what to expect. Her father had told her they were visiting a wizarding marketplace, all the stores clustered together, forbidden to Muggles. In America—at least, in the large city Liz came from—magical shops hid behind mundane facades in plain buildings along the street, scattered amidst Muggle stores; you could shop for jeans and get potions ingredients in the same trip. She had a feeling this would be quite the culture shock.

She'd even heard robes were still in fashion over here, a fact she didn't quite believe. Of course, she'd seen the British Minister of Magic in the newspaper once or twice, sometimes wearing the cloak things and maybe a traditional hat, but that was to be expected from a formal bureaucrat. This was 1994! Robes weren't casual dress anymore.

Her father, of course, wasn't wearing a robe now, but he had recently been among Muggles, so that didn't quite settle the issue. She supposed she'd find out soon enough.

The pub's back door opened to a tiny courtyard surrounded by high walls, the dead thorns of scarce wild roses strung over the tops, shifting in the breeze, moss creeping between cracks in the brick. Liz stood, her arms folded across her chest to brace against the cold, as her dad approached the far partition and tapped it with his wand on a seemingly random brick. Slowly, in response to his touch, the stones began to slide out of place, gathering themselves in a wonderful little enchantment to form an archway. Liz raised her eyebrows, impressed by the simple beauty of the ritual, and waited until the new doorway was complete.

Then, she got her first look at Diagon Alley.

"Oh _wow_..."

Never in her life had she _seen_ such a charming place, so completely true to the spirit of witchcraft and wizardry. American wizards spent a lot of their time blending in with Muggles, becoming part of them, adopting their customs and styles. Here it seemed the culture had remained fully intact, separate, perfectly preserved as though in time. She'd never known her father to talk much about his home, so, while she _had_ heard European witches and wizards liked to segregate from Muggles and live secretly in a different way, she certainly hadn't been expecting _this_.

Liz was absolutely enchanted stepping through that archway, gazing around in wonder at the beautiful little shop windows with their ornate wooden signs, the old fashioned buildings trimmed in slate and scarlet. She watched two children race by, their voices raised in exertion and excitement, lobbing balls which exploded into puffs of smoke upon impact. A witch down the lane stood by a quaint wooden cart, selling quills and parchment (they still used quills and parchment!), her shocking green robe managing to look quite ordinary given the setting.

Everyone was in robes, come to it, but it didn't seem as weird as Liz had been expecting. She'd entered this thriving, busy, beautiful world and felt, for the first time, as though she was exactly where she belonged.

Because the fact was, these people were her kin; these people weren't afraid to stay true to exactly what witches and wizards were. There had always been a strange kind of longing in Liz for the traditional wizarding culture; Salem's version was far too orderly, clean cut and monitored for her liking. Everything she knew about magic told her it was fluid, it rose and ebbed, it was often chaotic and disorganized. It fit exactly with the feel of this place, the look, the smell, the sound.

For the first time since boarding the plane, Liz found herself wearing a genuine smile.

"So… what do you need?" Her dad was distractedly digging through his pockets, obviously far less impressed than Liz, who wanted to visit every store in the alley. But his nonchalance had a sobering effect. She kept herself from acting too swept up in the locale, pretended to be just as unimpressed as he was.

"Uh…" She pulled the folded parchment list from her back pocket, suddenly realizing she must look very odd in her dark jeans and black cardigan, running a nervous hand down her leg and hoping no one stared. "I need… robes, I guess, first. Black robes as well as dress robes."

"Ah," her father said, smiling. "I heard about the reason behind the dress robes. You have a very entertaining year ahead."

"Why?" Liz frowned. Dress robes didn't sound terribly entertaining.

"The Triwizard Tournament will be held at Hogwarts this year!"

For once, she wasn't completely in the dark about this. Everyone knew what a Triwizard Tournament was, and everyone wanted the opportunity to see one at some point. Liz spun on her dad, who had just found his little black satchel of coins, and stared at him, trying to make sure he wasn't taking her for a ride.

"Are you serious?"

He ran a hand through his hair and laughed at her skeptical expression.

"Oh yes. Should be quite the event. But run on, run on. I've some shopping of my own to do." He tossed her the sack of galleons. "That should be more than enough. I'm sure you can find your way."

One thing Liz had always liked about her dad: he was far from overbearing. She was glad for the opportunity to be rid of him for a bit, and started off down the cobblestone path, her list in one hand, staring around at the buildings on either side.

She came first to a place called Madam Malkin's, a cute little robe vendor across the street from an ice cream parlor from whence came the most delicious smells Liz had probably ever known. The owner of the clothing shop turned out to be a squat, dimpled witch in her late forties, who was selling bright scarlet robes to a tall blond wizard and who smiled widely at Liz when she came through the door.

Once finished with the preceding customer, Madam Malkin made herself busy with Liz, asking what she needed, her color preferences, whether she preferred a flowing or sleek fit. Liz, completely unsure, finally had to admit to the witch that she had literally never worn a classic robe before; Salem's uniforms comprised of plaid skirts and short blue capes, nothing like these flowing black numbers she guessed would be part of her uniform at Hogwarts.

Hearing this, Madam Malkin launched into a new flurry of questions, mostly about America, all the time flicking her wand at a long piece of measuring tape which wrapped itself around different parts of Liz's body. She then showed her the deep black fabric of the school robes, had her choose her favorite type of cloak, and asked her to pick a style and color for her dress robes.

The term "dress robes" turned out to be a bit of a misnomer—for women, at least. Most of them looked to simply be formal gowns, often with a wizarding edge—a flared sleeve, an elaborate neckline. Liz found it awfully hard to choose just one she liked. In the end, however, she decided upon a midnight blue number with white accents, long bell sleeves, off-the-shoulders, its skirt gathered and dropped in a really elegant way. Madam Malkin cooed over it for a solid minute before she swept it away, got Liz dressed once more in her street clothes, and ushered her out with a "Half hour and it will be ready for pick up, dear."

After that, shopping was relatively easy. Everything on her list was within a one or two block radius, and she could omit buying items required for Salem, ones she already had—the cauldron, the telescope, the brass scales. She did stop in Florean Fortescue's for a delicious honey ice cream, and bought a few treats for poor, irritable Lysander at the Owl Emporium because he was feeling terribly down after his horrid plane ride.

Before she knew it, Liz was heading back to The Leaky Cauldron with armfuls of supplies.

She and her father Apparated to his home shortly thereafter, burdened with purchases. Liz had had a grand old time trying on her new cloak, which she paraded down the street with an amused grin, but she was starting to feel extremely jet-lagged and irritable, despite the long nap she'd charmed herself into on the plane.

Her father noticed the increase in tension—he'd been remarkably blasé about her sometimes-snide comments thus far—and ushered her into his wonderfully British home, what Liz thought looked like a large cottage, in a tiny wizarding township just outside of London. Therein, Liz promptly found her room, fed a very grumpy white barn owl his treats, and collapsed on her bed, asleep before her head hit the pillow.

* * *

Hogwarts never changed.

Snape was always amazed at how steady it was, how secure, despite its many secrets, its creations and uncreations, the thousands of experiences to be had here. But the character of Hogwarts was ageless —home to all who crossed its threshold.

Snape felt it, like everybody. It would be a lie to say he didn't. Surely, these halls were speckled with bitter memories, but it had been his paradise for years, the place he felt most understood and at ease. The Slytherin dormitories would always be familiar to him, almost like a comfort, where he'd laughed and talked and slept with his kind; the classrooms where he'd not simply learned to do magic but learned to _be a wizard_; the dungeons where he'd hunched for long hours over a simmering cauldron, content in the fumes and the heat. And the grounds… those were riddled with fond, sad memories of a broken romance, times when he'd walked with her by the lake. Times he'd nearly kissed her. The time she left him.

The best of times and the worst of times. The most triumphant and the most bitter. What else constituted home?

And now he returned again, at the age of thirty four, to haunt the dungeons where he'd played as a child—a tall, ominous, generally disliked figure in black. He swept around during the school year, looking grumpy, intimidating first years, his sneering, too-pale face framed by bone straight hair—so black it flashed hints of blue. It was sad, he thought—_he_ was sad. Pathetic. Alone and certainly not popular among his students, save perhaps for the Slytherins he showed special favor. He was under no delusions as to how the little cretins thought of him, but that wasn't much of a bother. If he'd wanted students to like him, he'd have showered them with candy.

Snape was a man who'd always preferred lack of companionship to whimsical, empty headed chatter; this made living with a dozen other scholarly teachers, none of whom liked him particularly, relatively easy. But it hadn't been since…

Well… it had been a long time since he'd connected with anyone. He felt that, apart from Dumbledore, the only people who really _knew_ him were either imprisoned or dead. It wasn't _lonely_, per se; he'd never describe himself as lonely. It just got dreadfully boring sometimes.

And it was quite sad.

He'd spent the last several days holed up in the dungeons, as per his usual start-of-term routine, poring over papers in his office, brewing potions he needed prepared, organizing books, making last-minute tweaks to his lesson plans and trying to avoid other living souls. His fatigue hadn't subsided—the Dark Mark scare had left him more strained than he had been previously—and resting was easier when people weren't attempting to carry on conversation.

Only it wasn't working.

Snape simply could not sleep.

He'd tried—oh had he. Usually, collapsing into the four-poster in the little room connected to his office had him dreaming deeply at once, so familiar was the sensation. But he found himself up and wandering the halls at ungodly hours, eyes wide, the circles underneath getting darker and darker. He'd tried tonics, teas and potions, but he always awoke feeling no more rested than he had the night before. Sleep, when he had it, was shallow and light. Short of Draught of the Living Dead, nothing worked. He needed real, healthy, natural sleep.

Drastic measures had to be taken, or he'd slit his own wrists just to get a bit of shut eye. And suicide didn't sound like the most productive option.

He needed to fall into bed, head fuzzy, mind at rest, so tired he forgot his own insomnia. He needed a deep, deep sleep.

And so it was that Snape, quite untrue to form, decided to go into Hogsmeade for a drink.


End file.
